


Wrong Direction

by Mumblespin



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Badass Jesus, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Flying ninja Jesus, Gen, Non-Consensual Touching, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:13:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26138680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mumblespin/pseuds/Mumblespin
Summary: Jesus has a very bad day at the hands of the saviors.Continutation/Canon Divergence of scene where Jesus is taken hostage in episode 8x02 'The Damned'.Recommend watching this short clip:  https://youtu.be/tt6er_sW9a0  if you haven't seen it in a while - story splits off from canon in the middle of this scene.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	Wrong Direction

…

“See, that’s where we differ.” The Savior argued.

“I take the two of you with me — I got one hell of an insurance policy.”

“So, why don’t you put that thing down? Unless you’re gonna shoot through this beautiful man here.”

“I’m not gonna ask you again.”

“OK, so how about this.” Dean reached down to Jesus’s hip and clumsily raised one of the knives he kept there to his hostage’s throat. Jesus froze; he’d sharpened that knife last night. His eyes widened as he felt the edge of the blade press against his carotid artery.

“You shoot me, I fall, and pretty boy bleeds out on the floor here.”

To make his point, Dean added a small amount of pressure, and Jesus gulped as the blade cut into his neck, a small rivulet of blood running down inside his collar. He blinked furiously before meeting Tara’s worried eyes. She was tight-lipped and shifted on her feet, desperate to make a move but unable to risk hurting him.

The sounds of guns firing outside paused, and the sudden silence was shocking after the din. Something had changed and he needed to get out of this situation and back to the battle. He was preparing to make a move when Diane screamed loudly in pain from just outside the door and Tara reflexively turned in fear toward her friend.

Jesus felt Dean shift and watched in slow motion as he moved the gun and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit Tara in the chest, and she fell back into the shelving behind her. She cried out, her face full of shock before collapsing to the floor, unmoving.

“Tara!” he yelled in horror and knocked the hand holding the knife to his throat aside. No no no no repeated in his head.

Before he could take another step toward her, the butt of the gun smashed against his skull. He stumbled and a kick to the back of his legs had his knees slamming into concrete. Another kick to the back and he had just enough time to catch himself with his hands before his face hit the floor. He groaned in pain and shook his head to clear it. He was only lightly stunned and the flares that had burst behind his eyes faded quickly. When he tried to rise, a knee landed on his back and his breath was pushed violently from his lungs as he was pinned by the heavier man.

“What else you got under there, huh?” he asked, ripping Jesus’s coat off so that he grunted when his arms were pulled sharply backward. Keeping his weight pressing on Jesus’s lower back, he searched his clothes and body, throwing aside the weapons he found. 

Jesus hardly noticed. While his body jerked under the other man’s ministrations, all his attention was focussed on Tara. He could hardly believe it, but he could see a pulse beat in her throat, and her chest rising as she breathed. Was she wearing a vest? He knew the Alexandrians had a couple – he’d seen them in their armoury on his first visit there. He couldn’t see any blood on her or beneath her and relief ran through him like cold water on a hot day.

He needed to keep Dean’s attention on him so that he didn’t notice Tara and be tempted to finish the job.

“There’s no way you’re getting out of here alive if you take me hostage.”

“We’ll see about that,” Dean sneered and pulled the smaller man to his feet. He put one arm underneath Jesus’s tied hands and grabbed a handful of his long hair. The hold simultaneously strained Jesus’s arms upward behind him, pulled on his scalp and unpleasantly forced his head back onto Dean’s shoulder. A tightening around his eyes was the only outward indication of discomfort and his instinct was to try and break the hold immediately, but he was torn between ending this now and needing to get the Savior away from Tara.

The tempo of the gunfight changed again, shots echoing back and forth along the corridor with shouts coming from both sides this time.

“Tara! Jesus! We’re falling back!” a Hilltopper shouted from outside the room.

Dean slapped his left hand over Jesus’s mouth before he could respond. He dragged him across to the open door where Jesus watched in horror as two of his friends were shot in the back as they tried to retreat. The familiar ache of disbelief and grief bloomed in Jesus’s chest. He’d known both of those men well. Tearing his eyes away from the bodies, he looked around. There was no sign of Diane and the Saviors had captured the hallway. The fighting quickly moved past them and around the corner to the right, putting him on the wrong side of the battle line. Dean seemed to hesitate momentarily but then moved left into the corridor.

Jesus shook the hand free of his face and tried again to reason with him. “You don’t need me now. You don’t need a hostage to get out. Just let me go back to my people.”

Dean’s only response was to pull Jesus up to a stop behind a group of Saviors shooting around the cover of the next bend. One of the men stopped to reload and glanced behind him. “Negan don’t like prisoners, Dean. Put a bullet in his head and let’s get out of here,” he shouted before resuming firing.

“This one’s coming with me. Negan doesn’t need to know,” Dean yelled above the noise.

Jesus frowned. That didn’t sound like “coming with me to ensure my escape.” It sounded like he intended to risk the wrath of his, by all accounts, terrifying leader to bring him back to Sanctuary. Suddenly, the way he had behaved since he and Tara first met took on a whole new light. He found he needed to reassess the kind of threat the Savior posed.

“Push them back, push ‘em back!” a Savior cried. Then he said to the others around him, “We gotta get through that door”—he gestured to a fire door across the corridor—“then we’ve got a straight run to the cars.”

From his position, pinned against Dean, it was impossible for him to tell who was winning this skirmish. But he was quickly running out of patience for diplomacy. They were making a run for it. That door led to the back entrance Jesus had noticed last time they attacked this place. He had no intention of going with them.

“You’re not gonna make it,” Jesus said. “It’s not too late. You can all surrender with the others and I’ll make sure you’re not killed.”

With this very last attempt at appealing to the Savior’s logic, he tried to turn out of his hold, putting some distance between them finally and hopefully illustrating that now would be the time to let him go. Immediately, Dean pushed straight toward the nearest wall, nearly lifting Jesus off his feet. He grunted as he was crushed between the unforgiving wall and the Savior’s body and winced as Dean renewed his grip on his hair, shaking his arm for emphasis.

“Didn’t you hear what he said? We’re out of here, and I’m gonna make sure to thank you properly for the mercy you showed poor me” Dean whimpered in an imitation of the pathetic tone he had used before. He pressed his nose into Jesus’s hair and inhaled, a pleased humming sound vibrating from his chest into his back. “Let’s see how much of a humanitarian you are after you spend a couple of hours with me at Sanctuary…hmm?”

Dean pushed his body harder against him. Unable to even turn his head away, Jesus was forced to feel the length of the other man’s body flush with his own. The man’s smell and heat invaded his senses. Jesus closed his eyes and drew in a couple of harsh breaths. His worst suspicions were confirmed, and although all his instincts told him to get this fucker off of him, he managed to control himself and wait until he wasn’t surrounded by armed enemies.

A few seconds later, the gunfire stopped, and the Savior ahead of them made a run for the door, but Dean made no move to follow.

Instead, he pressed a satisfied “see” into Jesus’ shoulder while he reflexively tensed in revulsion. He did not want to be alone with this man.

With another grind of his body against him, Dean’s free hand moved down and under Jesus’ shirt to run across his stomach, then the waistline of his pants. Jesus’s jaw clenched and his heart rate spiked at the unwelcome touch.

“I’m gonna make you wish you’d killed me when you had the chance.” He breathed in Jesus’s ear.

“I’m already there,” Jesus said.

Using adrenaline, anger and the small amount of leverage he could gain, he pushed the man off him. Ignoring the pull on his arms and scalp, he forced his head forward, then immediately back. There was a distinct snapping noise when his head crushed Dean’s nose and a muffled shout of shock. Before the other man had a chance to regain his composure, he dropped and rolled to the floor, using his body weight to force the Savior hand down and free from his hair and arms. Continuing the roll back to his feet, he jumped in the air, bent his knees up and brought his bound arms under his feet to the front of his body. He landed perfectly balanced directly opposite Dean, who stood with his hands to his bloody nose, a startled expression on his face. That changed when Jesus kicked him in the stomach, spun and finished with a roundhouse to the head. The Savior went down. Hard.

Jesus huffed in relief, brushing his hair back from his face. He allowed himself the time to adjust to the ache from his head and get his skin to stop crawling before he refocused on getting back to his people. He was worried about Tara and Diane and this horrible detour had wasted his time. Looking around him, he debated trying to free his hands, but when foreign voices approached, his decision was made for him.

Moving quickly in the direction they had been headed, he paused only briefly at the intersection before setting off again. He took three more steps when the sound of a shot echoed through the corridor and pain exploded in his leg. He hit the concrete floor once more, face screwed up in a silent scream, gripping at the gunshot wound in his left thigh. Fighting through the agony blossoming from the hole in his leg, he couldn’t believe he’d missed the threat, where had the shot come from? Throwing a panicked look behind him, he saw Dean had recovered too quickly and now stood unsteadily raising a hand to a bloody wound on the right side of his scalp. Whereas before he had been smug and amused, now his expression was pure terrifying rage. He stalked toward Jesus, throwing the empty gun aside.

Jesus tried to get to his feet to defend himself, but the injury was too fresh, and with his hands still bound, he didn’t make it before Dean knocked him back down. Dean landed a powerful kick to his kidneys, then another to his stomach before using his heel to roll Jesus onto his back, coughing and gasping. The Savior straddled him, sitting on his bound hands, and Jesus was completely immobilized. He was helpless as the other man rained down punches into his face. Each blow felt like a sledgehammer landing on Jesus’s jaw, his cheekbone, then his mouth. Between hits, Jesus glimpsed Dean’s face twisted in fury until his head was snapped to the side by the strength of the blows and lights exploded behind his eyes.

After another hit to his mouth, Dean paused with his fists still raised. Fresh blood ran down Jesus’s chin from a split lip. As he struggled to focus, he saw Dean’s expression slowly change from anger to something else.

He looked ravenous. He looked down at Jesus as though he wanted to rip all of him apart to get to his insides. Gripping him around the jaw so Jesus couldn’t turn away, he bent down and dragged his tongue across Jesus’ mouth, licking up the blood. In a daze of pain, Jesus tried to shift his face away from the assault, but Dean stayed so close that he could feel his excited panting against his skin. Jesus pressed his eyes closed as if blocking him out and tried to fight through the pain from his wounds. All he could feel was weight pressing down on him, the stench of urine and sweat and sharp, dreadful pulsing in his head and leg. He just had to hope the bullet hadn’t hit his artery; it was impossible to tell, though it felt as if his entire leg was on fire. The Savior’s next words still made it clearly through the ringing in his ears. “You’re gonna pay for that. I’m really gonna enjoy making you pay for that. Those big blue eyes are gonna weep,” he crooned and moved his leg to viciously press on the gunshot wound. Jesus’ body contorted and he screamed with the little air he had. Dean smiled against his cheek. “I like the noises you make, oh god, you do things to me, pretty boy.” He was so close that Jesus could taste his own blood on Dean’s breath as he gasped. “I’m really gonna pay you some good attention.” He moved his leg again.

Jesus cried out against Dean’s lips, blinking away the tears that sprang to his eyes. He gulped a steadying breath. Despite what his body was going through, he was determined enough to focus his thoughts on one fact: the scenario Dean was suggesting would never play out. Groaning through clenched teeth, he turned to look into the other man’s eyes and poured every ounce of disgust he felt into the “fuck you” he spat.

“That’s right,” Dean agreed and slowly smiled, considering every inch of Jesus’s defiant face. “I know what you need.”

Sitting up, he removed his belt. Jesus tried to struggle free from underneath him, but before he could free his hands, Dean pulled the looped belt over Jesus’s head. As Jesus felt the leather tighten, he watched in horror as Dean wrapped the other end twice around his fist. He met Dean’s eyes and said with a warning in his voice, “Don’t.”

Dean’s only reply was a sneering smile. Jesus wasn’t prepared when Dean stood, violently yanking him to his feet. For a few seconds, he was completely hung from his neck, his entire weight squeezing and tightening the leather band. He scrabbled at the belt with his bound hands but couldn’t get any purchase. By the time he stood unevenly on his feet, he was blinded by pain and coughing for air.

Dean pulled him close, so Jesus had little choice but to lean against the taller man just to stay upright. Any distance and the belt would strangle him again. Dean produced a large rag and gagged him roughly with it. From the smell of urine, Jesus guessed it must have come from his pants pocket. The stench and taste of it made bile rise in the back of his throat, yet he swallowed it down along with the realization of how powerless he’d just become. It tasted like fear.

They moved forward, Jesus stumbling and tripping on the other man’s feet. They followed the path taken by the other fleeing Saviors to the back entrance, through a broken door and down a short grey corridor, every step agony and drawing him closer to a nightmare. It’s not going to happen, he reiterated to himself. These men had no idea what he was capable of, and if he couldn’t fight his way out, he would rather die. If that’s what needed to happen between here and Sanctuary, then so be it.

They burst outside into the late afternoon sunlight, Jesus calmed by his action plan and relieved to breathe air unpolluted by gunpowder and blood. Directly ahead was an old Jeep with three men waiting alongside it, all with impatient faces and pointed guns.

He tried dragging his feet as much as possible without suffocating. The metal clasp dug into the tender flesh under his jaw, pressure built in his head and the grip of the binding reached an unbearable level. It was pointless, and too soon, Jesus was subject to the curious looks of the other men. He met their eyes determinedly, despite being at the mercy of the Savior holding him.

“We the only ones?” Dean asked.

“No-one else that I’ve seen,” another said, shrugging as if discussing attendance at a PTA meeting and not the possible survival of their allies.

“Let’s get out of here,” Dean said and climbed into the back seat, shoving Jesus in first so that he growled against his gag when his leg jammed against the torn leather of the seat. The others piled into the front of the Jeep, and as soon as the last door slammed shut, the driver accelerated away. Jesus watched the outpost through the back window as it shrank into the distance, all chance of escaping and returning to his friends disappearing with it.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At first no-one talked. They put at least a couple of miles between them and the outpost before the Savior visibly relaxed and began congratulating themselves on a battle hard fought. To Jesus’s relief, among the chatter, Dean finally let go of the belt. Jesus moved his hands to the next immediate threat and tried to add pressure to his leg to slow the bleeding. Most of the lower leg of his combats was sodden, and he could feel weariness creeping around the edges of his mind. Unfortunately, he’d probably need to factor that into any plans he needed to make.

Dean eyed him, then grunted and leant over the seat to the trunk, returning with a roll of bandage that they’d likely stolen from the hilltop. Allowing the Savior to wrap his leg was a test of his restraint. Any situation where he had an excuse to put his hands on Jesus was one too many, and his face showed his displeasure around his bruises. He did his best to ignore the added tension from the binding, and when finished, the leg felt significantly less painful and the bleeding had slowed.

“How long?” Dean asked, his hands still resting on Jesus’ thigh.

Bile rose in Jesus’s throat again at seeing how eager the other man was. He swallowed forcefully and pulled his leg away. 

“About two hours.” Confirmed the Savior in the driver’s seat.

Jesus turned away to look out onto the countryside flashing past. It was warm inside the car, but the air flowing in the windows brought the comforting smells of leaves and autumn and he allowed himself a moment to enjoy it. It helped calm him and think more logically. So, he knew how long he had: 120 minutes to put down four Savior in a moving vehicle while wounded and bound.

He had, very quickly, ended up in an unbelievably bad situation.

With the car moving at speed and outnumbered as he was, he couldn’t make another bid for freedom then. He turned his attention to the other men instead, looking for anything he could use to his advantage.

The Saviors in the front seat obviously behaved as though Dean was to be respected and deferred to him. ‘Driver’ seemed to be the loudest and, judging by his comments, the most bloodthirsty. He was also the biggest after Dean, with a thick neck and arms. ‘Nervous’ in the middle of the front seat constantly chewed at his fingernails and waited to speak until he was sure he knew what the others wanted to hear. His personality suited his wiry size and it looked like his left eye was clouded over. ‘Smelly,’ closest to the passenger side window, was filling the car with the bitter reek of body odour. He seemed the most relaxed, possibly because of the contents of the flask he sipped from every few minutes. He was older with grey hair, tall but not particularly strong. Jesus catalogued the information away for later.

Smelly took another swig and broke the silence. “What should we say when we get back?”

“You mean how come we made it out?” Driver asked.

Nervous shifted in his seat and momentarily paused chewing on his thumbnail to whine. “We don’t even know what happened in the end…what if…”

“We do know,” Dean interrupted. “Those fuckers had more guns and more bodies, it’s as simple as that.”

“We’ll just say we were the last ones,” Driver said. “If anyone else makes it back, then all the better ‘but I swear boss we woulda waited if we knew!’” he spoke in a consolatory tone to, Jesus guessed, an imaginary Negan.

The other men chuckled in response, and it seemed like they’d come to an agreement. Jesus guessed he shouldn’t be surprised by the lack of remorse for their dead friends or cowardice in abandoning the fight but still had to concentrate to keep a carefully neutral expression. The fact that they’d be lying to Negan might be useful later.

As if reading his thoughts, Driver drew his attention back to the front of the car. “What about your boy here?” He flicked his head lazily in Jesus’s direction. “We gonna need to shut him up?”

“I’m not worried.” Dean shrugged, moving closer on the back seat. “I won’t be keeping him around so long, and if he causes trouble…’ He paused for dramatic effect then spoke directly into Jesus’ ear. “…I’ll just cut his tongue out”. All smiling eyes were back on Jesus as the men laughed in approval, watching for his reaction.

Jesus kept his face blank, although in his anger, it was possible a small amount of unimpressed crept into his expression. Hearing his fate laid out so bluntly was uncomfortable; it also wasn’t news.

“He do that to you?” Smelly asked, gesturing at the dried blood on Dean’s face.

“He sure did!” Dean said as if he were congratulating a five-year-old on his homework. He turned toward Jesus again and tugged on his hair.

“I’m thinking he may be regretting that a little now,” Nervous said, checking around for approval.

This time Jesus knew his face showed just how much he really didn’t regret his earlier action.

Dean winked to the front of the car while moving over into Jesus’ space. “He’s gonna regret it more.” He leant his left arm and his weight against Jesus’s chest and with his right, reached down to squeeze the bandage around the gunshot wound. Jesus’s leg erupted in stabbing fire. He screamed into his gag as his back arched off the seat and he struggled to push the other man off. It seemed to take forever, but eventually he let go. When the roaring in his ears had subsided, Jesus heard laughter from the men watching. Driver had been staring in the rear-view mirror so much that they’d veered off the road onto the grass verge and he had to quickly correct.

Rage simmered warm in Jesus’s chest and it helped him manage the fresh agony. Dean was performing for them and they were enjoying the show. Jesus sat back up straight and still, breathing heavily but steadily. When Dean pressed on the wound again, he watched Jesus’ face in gross anticipation from a few inches away.

Jesus couldn’t stop his muscles from tensing or his hands from clenching but he met the eyes of the three in turn, his message clear. He wouldn’t be giving them entertainment again. Dean pressed harder and Jesus’s face twisted in frustration, but he was resolute.

When it felt as though the other man’s hand was crushing his leg and he had almost reached the limit of his tolerance, Driver spoke up. “Tough guy, huh?”

Dean shoved Jesus away in disgust so that his shoulder hit the faded plastic under the window. The impact hurt, and Jesus’s jaw ached from clenching his teeth to stop from crying out, but he was pleased to be able to deny them some fun.

His small victory didn’t last long. Driver spoke from the front in a slow and deliberate tone. “Why don’t you use the belt?”

Jesus’s eyes flashed to Driver’s in horror, then turned to Dean’s excited face. Dean was licking his lips in anticipation, and before Jesus could even raise his arms to try and stop him, he pulled on the belt so hard that his air was immediately cut off. Jesus grabbed at the belt before his arms were pinned again. Dean had braced him against his side so that his neck was twisted almost to breaking.

Jesus’s eyes squeezed shut against the pain, and he tried to keep his reaction minimal, for he knew everything he did would be for the enjoyment of these men. He couldn’t hold back for long — the pressure was building in his head, and the need to breathe quickly outweighed any other consideration. Any second now, any second now, Dean would let go, but more than a minute passed and the burning in Jesus’s lungs became unbearable. The pain reached a peak, but then everything began to fade away. Darkness built in his mind.

Suddenly, the strain against his neck was gone, and he sucked in air through his nose, folding over, his hands going to his throat. He kept his eyes closed so that he wouldn’t have to see his audience and just kept inhaling. It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough – his brain still screamed at him for more.

He tried to claw the gag out of his mouth, but Dean stopped him by yanking the belt tight again.

This time was worse. He was already oxygen deprived and his heart began to stutter in his chest. The desperation returned so quickly and escalated until all pretence of composure was abandoned and he thrashed against Dean. His legs kicked against the seat and the door. Lights exploded behind his eyes, there was screaming in his head, how much time had passed? He knew he couldn’t take it any longer.

Finally, he lashed out with his elbow. He felt the impact with Dean’s stomach and immense relief when the tension was released and he could breathe again. He was hyperventilating and completely weakened. Dean grabbed Jesus by the hair and slammed his head against the jagged plastic of the window frame. Jesus hardly noticed the impact. He allowed himself to slump forward, his hands on his boots, the shock of the hit taking its toll. He hung there like a puppet whose strings had been cut, not moving apart from his heaving chest pushing air down his swelling throat. He tried to control it, tried to convince his body that the air coming in was enough, but he began to panic. He simply couldn’t get enough air to recover. Jesus tried to think, to come up with some kind of plan to use the tools he had, but it was almost impossible to form any thoughts. He just needed to breathe.

He didn’t have long enough before Dean pulled him up, and his airway was forced shut once again.

The pain and pressure were all-encompassing this time. All other fight gone from him, moments before passing out, Jesus elbowed Dean in the groin. Dean let out a pained “oof” and curled over himself. All Jesus could do was desperately cling to consciousness. Slumped over the seat, every atom of oxygen felt like a blessing, but came too slowly. Every ounce of his being tried to control his panicked respiration.

Dean recovered and reached over to grab Jesus’s face with two hands, pulling him to within inches of his own. He was all hurt ego and infantile fury and Jesus wondered what might come next in retaliation. If he had a few more moments, he didn’t really care. But Dean stopped, his hot breath on Jesus’s face. His expression changed to that of surprise, his eyes flicking between Jesus’s own.

“Not so blue now!” Smelly sneered and Nervous laughed.

Jesus guessed the blood vessels in his eyes must have burst. That would explain the rosy tinge that he couldn’t blink away like the rest of the spots in his vision. But Dean wasn’t laughing along, and he wasn’t performing for the others anymore. This close, Jesus could see he was flushed from more than just heat. With a pang of fear, Jesus recognised the hungry look he’d seen before.

Dean grabbed the belt again and pulled so hard it lifted Jesus off his seat and almost into his lap. Somewhere at the back of Jesus’s awareness, another layer of repulsion registered, but he didn’t have the air to be able to fight. He barely even had time to feel afraid before a black tide swamped his mind. As he drifted away, his last fleeting thought was that he couldn’t imagine a worse way to die. When the roar in his head reached a new deafening pitch, he slipped away.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next sensation Jesus was aware of was a biting stab in his neck and a trickle of warm running down to his chest. The belt buckle had drawn blood. He didn’t know how long he had been unconscious, but it couldn’t have been long if he was still alive. He was still there, at the mercy of these men, and he was so tired that for the first time he felt truly afraid.

His captor reinforced how very helpless he was when he huffed in excitement against his neck, the hot air close on his right shoulder. He moved until he could run his tongue from Jesus’s heaving chest, following the rivulet of red, over his clavicle and up to the wound. Jesus wished he had the strength to push him off but instead was only able to desperately suck in air and try to convince his thoughts to form coherently despite his dizziness and dread. Dean bucked up in the seat against him, his hands bunched in the shirt at Jesus’ waist. As before, he was excited by making him bleed and he was becoming more and more impatient.

“Are we nearly there yet?” Dean asked Driver in a strained voice. “Fuck, I’ve got blue balls something awful, guys.”

The loudest guffaws yet followed his confession and Driver gleefully replied, “No, man, you’re gonna have to wait.”

Dean let out a frustrated huff in Jesus’s ear. Jesus closed his eyes. He didn’t need to see any more of their ghoulish reactions. If he could have covered his ears, he would have.

As his ability to think clearly returned, he began to feel even worse. He berated himself for not having made a move earlier. He’d honestly thought that offering the Savior the opportunity to surrender and survive was the way forward for them as individuals, but also for the society they were all trying to build. This was one of those rare occasions that he questioned his decisions to act with mercy and patience.

Finally, he felt strong enough to try to move. He wasn’t held by the belt anymore, and being this close to the other man made the hackles stand up on the back of his neck. 

He just needed a few minutes. A few minutes to gather his thoughts and pull himself back together again. He’d never felt more driven to end a situation quickly and, for these men, painfully.

Using the weight of his legs, he tried to straighten up. Dean immediately tightened both arms around his body and pulled him back against him, left hand bunching in his shirt until the knuckles were white. His right hand slipped beneath to the hard warmth of Jesus’s stomach and chest. Jesus grunted in disgust against the gag and bucked against the hold to try and break away. He couldn’t take much more of this. Behind all the torment and light-headedness, he needed to be free and in control of his own body. An uncontrollable scream built within him.

“Quit fighting,” Dean said and crushed his hand into a fist in Jesus’s side. He screamed as his flesh was crushed and rough fingernails pierced his skin. His heartrate shot up again to unsustainable levels.

Dean’s chest heaved against Jesus’ back. His breath was a growl against Jesus’s neck when he shouted at the driver to stop. Dean had reached his breaking point. “Pull over!”

“I ain’t stopping for nothing,” Driver said.

Dean raged against Jesus. “Pull over now.” When there was still hesitation, he added in a more consolatory tone, “Hey, I’ll owe you one.”

“One what?” Driver’s eyes told Jesus exactly what he’d want in payment.

“Whatever, man, just stop the car.”

“Hey, you sure?” Nervous asked. “He’s a fighter.”

“It’s fine,” Dean said, opening the door even before the car had finished moving. He moved to the back of the truck and collected a length of rope.

“He’s half dead, and I’m gonna wreck him so bad he’s not gonna be able to walk, let alone run.” The men tittered in appreciation as Jesus was dragged out of the Jeep by the arm, feeling like he was either entering his nightmare or his last chance at salvation.

Dean wasn’t using the belt, but Jesus’s heart was still beating as though he’d been sprinting, and he was so lightheaded that he had to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. Come on, focus, he thought. He knew what was coming. The resolution he’d made hadn’t changed.

He limped next to Dean through the long grass, toward the edge of the forest, inhaling as deeply as he could, focussing on what needed to happen and bringing his thoughts to order. Dean walked quickly, single-mindedly dragging him the last few metres where they crossed into the undergrowth and trees. Jesus’s time for preparation was over.

Dean pulled Jesus to a stop behind a thick tree which blocked their view to the road, jammed him against the peeling bark and threw the rope around a branch above them. Joining it to the binding around his wrists, he suspended his arms above him. Jesus showed no resistance. Dean slowed down and leant in to speak against Jesus’s ear. His hands rested on Jesus’s heaving shoulders. “Just a quickie, pretty boy.” He smelt his hair again. “I won’t lie; you’re gonna feel this.”

Jesus closed his eyes and did his best to still his mind, to fall back on his training and ignore the man behind him and the urgent pulls at his clothes. He inhaled once more, as deeply as he could. Time slowed as he let his mind connect and gain absolute control of his muscles.

His hands broke from above his head and dropped free. Muscles tensed, he spun anticlockwise, using his momentum to pull his right hand in a powerful arc, holding the inch of steel he used to free his wrists. He sliced through Dean’s jugular, then his trachea in one clean, horizontal slice. He blinked, and time returned to normal.

Jesus breathed heavily through his nose but stood still, calmly meeting Dean’s eyes that bulged hideously in his head, his hands clapped to his throat where a strange gargling noise sounded. Rivers of blood poured from between his fingers and they both knew he had about a minute to live. Jesus watched steadily as the other man fell to his knees, then his back, his look of terror not softening when he was dead. Jesus’ face didn’t soften either.

As soon as the light was out in the other man’s eyes, Jesus ripped the gag from his mouth and gasped like a drowning man. Ignoring his burning, inflamed throat he took in as much air as his body would allow. Slumping back against the tree, hands bracing his bad leg, he wheezed again and again until the last cobwebs had cleared from his mind.

He’d gambled on Dean being too preoccupied to notice the knife, and it had paid off. He’d been hiding it in his boot for over 10 years and no one looking had ever found it. He’d only had to use it twice in that time, the other when he’d first met Rick and Daryl. When he’d furtively retrieved it while slumped over in the car, he’d never been so pleased to be prepared.

Wiping it clean on his pants, he pocketed it, then realised he’d have to work to remove the stain. Looking down at the dead man at his feet, he didn’t need anything reminding him of this day. He’d never gained any pleasure from killing another person. That hadn’t changed, but as he spat on the floor, trying to clear the taste of rag from his mouth, he judged he hadn’t hated it either.

“Fuck,” he groaned, looking to the sky and running a hand through his hair. This day had gone so badly in the wrong direction. He hoped his friends had fared better at the outpost. He needed to get back. Check on Tara and Diane. Make sure that no-one else had been hurt by this cult of sadists.

Then he wanted his trailer, the comfort of home, and a thousand scalding showers. Maybe in disinfectant. He gave an exhausted little chuckle at the thought.

Taking inventory of his injuries, he figured it could be worse. The bullet wound was still bleeding sluggishly but not a life threatening amount. His face was swollen, he knew, but it didn’t seem like any bones were broken. Possibly, he’d be peeing blood later from the blow to his kidneys and his throat really was incredibly painful, but as long as it didn’t swell any more, he would be ok. Add to those what felt like bruises all over his body and he guessed he’d been in worse shape.

Which was good, because it sounded like the Saviors in the car were getting restless. “Dean!” they called. “Dean! Come on boy! Hurry up with that, we gotta go!”

Jesus needed more time. The sound of a car door slamming cut him short. He tucked his hair behind his ears and stood to listen carefully for the approaching man. One man had been sent to retrieve them; he could hear a single set of footsteps moving through the brush. He knew what he needed to do.

When Smelly rounded the tree, Dean’s belt went around his neck and Jesus followed with a kick to the back of the knees. Jesus pulled the man back to pin him, but the Savior was resourceful. He elbowed Jesus hard in the ribs, twice on the right and once on the left side. Jesus had no choice but to take the blows, gulping down the pain through clenched teeth. The Savior weakened slowly, but eventually the man landed on top of Jesus, who locked his legs around the other man’s torso.

In his last attempt to survive, the Savior gained desperate strength. His elbow strike hit in the same place as the others, but this time, Jesus felt his ribs break and he couldn’t swallow his yell. Now his arms shook with the effort of holding the belt and his leg screamed at the extra pressure put on it, but he stayed on the ground wrapped around the man until his struggles slowed, then stopped altogether. Gratefully, Jesus untangled himself and gingerly got to his feet.

Two down. Two to go. He was so tired, but he was still in a lot of danger. They’d most likely both come at once. He couldn’t outrun them and now he had broken ribs to contend with. Quickly, he searched Dean and the other Savior for any weapons he could use. He found his own hunting knife on Dean and returned it to the sheath on his hip. Hope flared momentarily when he found a gun, but the chamber and magazine were empty. They had exhausted all their small arms ammunition at the outpost. Sighing in frustration, he bent once more to the dead men, and without savouring the familiar task, drove his knife into their brains. Then he turned and limped as quietly as he could deeper into the brush.

He didn’t have long to wait before the Saviors’ annoyance and fury drove them into the forest clearing to meet him. When they found their buddies in a bloody pile by the tree, their cries of anger alerted him. Closing his eyes and pushing back his weariness, he savoured the adrenaline coursing through his body at the prospect of another fight. In the least stealthy way imaginable, they crashed through the underbrush about 10 feet away to his right. In a less serious situation, he might have rolled his eyes. The light was fading in the day and the foliage was dense where Jesus stood at the edge of a clearing. They didn’t immediately see him, so he took his chance while their backs were turned.

Jesus was right behind Nervous when he struck, stabbing him in the back, aiming low. Nervous inhaled roughly and immediately collapsed in a pile on the ground. Driver’s head snapped to Jesus, who was almost glad he was the last one. The pleasure he’d taken from his torture in the car still burned as warm anger in his gut. Driver unsheathed a knife with his right hand and looked as though he knew how to use it. His face said he couldn’t wait to use it on him as he watched Jesus approach, limping but balanced.

Driver circled to the left and then ran to slash upward at Jesus’s open side. Jesus blocked and jabbed back so quickly with his own knife that Driver only just managed to jump back in time. Sneering, Driver followed up with an upward thrust of his knife that Jesus dodged, getting inside Driver’s guard. Jesus uppercut him to the gut then took several stumbling steps back; he was moving much too slowly on his injured leg. His fear and adrenaline shot up another couple of notches.

The other man spat onto the ground and straightened up, wincing. He circled back to the right, apparently deciding what action to take next. Jesus took the opportunity to try to brace himself. He needed every second, but suddenly, there was movement behind him, so he spun, raising his arms to block out of instinct. Incredibly, Nervous was back on his feet and swung a thick branch down onto his raised arms, the hit intended for the back of his head. The blunt impact shuddered through Jesus’s arms and shoulders, but he had no time to retaliate before he sensed Driver behind him. He moved quickly, pushing the branch off and diving to the side, but wasn’t quite fast enough. He gasped as the knife sliced into his right arm instead of his heart.

Backing up, he kept his arm and knife raised despite the fresh pain, but the Saviors moved together to attack again, splitting apart so that he could only keep one of them in his eyeline. Driver lunged slow enough for Jesus to dodge and grab his arm, hitting him in the ulnar nerve to disarm him. Jesus backed away again, but Driver kicked out, his foot connecting with Jesus’s wounded arm. Jesus’s knife was knocked from his hand, and Nervous took the opportunity to grab and pin his arms. In his weakened state, they made a dangerously good team. Driver made a power play and his friend followed up once Jesus was defenceless. He took a punch to the face and stomach before he could free himself and sweep the legs of the man in front of him. He completed the turn and punched Nervous in the groin before he rolled to gain some distance between them. In trying to rise back to his feet, he faltered, and Driver barrelled his enormous weight toward him. He collided with Jesus and lifted him off his feet, sending him flying across the clearing.

When Jesus hit the ground, all the air left his lungs in one big whoosh. His chest felt as though he’d been impaled, red agony arcing out from his chest and screaming through his veins. He tried to take a breath but it caught, and he turned in time to cough blood onto the dirt. Curling in on himself, he repeated, don’t pass out, don’t pass out.

The Savior turned from where he had stumbled into a thick tree trunk and wove unevenly toward him. Jesus wearily rolled far enough so that he could stumble to his feet, putting most of his weight on his good leg and willing his wheezing lungs to cooperate for a little while longer. Fresh blood dripped from his arm and he was alarmingly tired. The Savior followed him and threw a right cross. Jesus ducked and weaved, hobbling slightly but managing to land a savage blow to the man’s midriff when the Savior over-committed.

Repressing more coughs and praying the move would put him down, Jesus pulled his left leg in toward his body and then shot it out with enough strength to crush his heel into the other man’s trachea. Jesus’s bad leg gave way and a weak cry left his swollen throat as they both hit the ground at the same time. Driver pawed at his neck with a horrified expression on his ugly face. A different man might take satisfaction from watching him suffer the same torture he’d experienced. Jesus turned away instead and waited for Nervous, who hobbled closer, having retrieved Jesus’s knife. He looked a lot less confident without his friends and hesitated, waiting for a direction that would never come. It was all the time Jesus needed. He retrieved his lucky knife from his pocket and threw it with a pained grunt and his very last effort. It flew across the space between them and embedded in Nervous’ good eye with a crunch. He fell back to the ground wailing and crying, trying to pull out the blade. Blind and injured, he no longer posed a threat.

It was over. Jesus was shaking. He couldn’t identify which parts of his body hurt the most. It had all intensified into a feeling that seemed to take over his entire being. All his nerve endings screamed at him at once, with a stabbing peak whenever he tried to take a deep breath. He didn’t even have the energy to spit the blood from his mouth. Prone on his back, watching the trees move above him, he waited for the worst of it to fade and the greyness in his vision to recede.

Don’t pass out, don’t pass out, he prayed again, and he didn’t, but he couldn’t move either.

As someone who could usually avoid a fight or stop one very quickly - one way or another - this could go down as the worst day he’d had in a long time. With a small sigh, he supposed he could do another inventory of his injuries, but it would be much quicker to list what didn’t hurt.

Something crept into his awareness and shook him from his thoughts. The sounds around him had changed. With dread sinking into his stomach, he realised what he was hearing. Raising himself onto an elbow, he saw shapes emerging from deep in the woods. The fight had drawn walkers from the surroundings. A moan sounded from much nearer, and he jumped as the corpse nearest to him moved. Driver was changing and a walker was rising where he fell.

Jesus’s eyes widened in surprise, and he couldn’t believe that after all these years, he could still forget the horrors that passed as everyday life. As the walkers crept closer and Driver turned to look at him with dead eyes, the fear drove him past the paralysis that had gripped him. He got one leg beneath him, took a breath and then stood all the way. Blood rushed to his head, and for a moment, the floor pitched under him before stilling again.

Gripping his side, he began limping slowly, but as fast as he could manage, in the direction of the car. As he passed Nervous, he saw that he was incredibly still alive, though barely. “Help me…please.” He raised his bloody hand to Jesus.

Not completely blind then.

It cost him precious time and energy, but Jesus hobbled over to look down on the dying man.

“Help me…please,” Nervous said.

“Did you know people call me Jesus?” Jesus monotoned.

Hope flared in the other man’s remaining eye, before it flicked away to the approaching walkers. “Jesus…please…mercy.”

As Jesus considered the other man, images of his friends shot down in retreat flashed behind his eyes. Ghosts of pain and nausea flared in his neurons as the scent of the Jeep and sounds of laughter echoed in his senses. He looked Nervous in the eye. “Wrong guy,” he said, then looked away and moved on, feeling nothing and ignoring the screams.

==================================================================================

Breaking through the trees and into the sunlight, it was as though Jesus had left something behind in the dark. Favouring his chest and leg, fresh blood dripping from his hand and leaving a trail in the grass, he moved forward. It felt as though determination was the only thing left keeping him upright and moving.

You don’t need to be fast, just faster than a walker, he thought and wheezed, as though that task didn’t seem impossible. The day seemed ten times warmer than it had before, sweat ran into his eyes and he suddenly realised how thirsty he was. Squinting toward the low sun to check for the car, he’d made it halfway back across the long grass. It felt like he’d travelled twice as far already.

Nearly there…nearly there, he thought, slowing down in relief. Dead hands reached for him from behind, catching in his clothes and hair, and he groaned, forcing his aching, bruised body into one last burst of speed.

There were four walkers ahead of him now, coming from another direction, and Jesus’s fear rose as they moved between him and the car. Pulling on reserves of strength he didn’t know he possessed, he dodged to the left around one walker, then dropped and rolled to avoid the grasp of another, but then bent almost double when hacking coughs stabbed through his chest. His new momentum halted, threatening to desert him altogether, and he lurched the last few metres to the car, collapsed inside and slammed the door closed behind him.

Finding the keys in the ignition made him giddy with relief, and he started the engine, hoping the quarter tank of gas would be enough. He pulled away just as the walkers reached the open windows and made a sloppy U-turn back toward the outpost.

Judging by the amount of blood on his shirt sleeve, he needed to do something about the fresh cut to his arm. The best he could do without stopping—if he stopped, he didn’t think he’d start again—was to tear his sleeve and tie a bandage with one hand and his teeth. It would serve its purpose until he could get home. Home, he thought, finally, he was on his way. But slumped behind the wheel, blinking heavily with pain, exhaustion and blood loss, the drive in front of him seemed insurmountable.

He had only made it a couple of miles before he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking on the steering wheel. The world began to blink in and out until he felt the sinking feeling in his gut that meant he was losing his fight with consciousness. He swerved off the road, slamming the brakes and just managing to come to a stop before finally passing out.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When he woke again, it was slowly. His eyes blinked open, and for a moment, he forgot the events of the day, feeling so peaceful. Reality crashed in a second later as his injuries made themselves known and he let out an anguished moan. 

His senses and nerve endings felt like they were on overdrive. His skin was aching, burning and stinging all at the same time. Covered in dirt, sweat and blood he shivered and tried to swallow past his thirst before wincing and bringing a hand to the abrasions on his neck. Looking around him, he wrinkled his nose in disgust at the lingering presence of the car full of Savior. Maybe I’ll burn this car later, he thought idly before gritting his teeth in preparation to move.

Making some pathetic noises now that he was sure no-one could hear him, he sat up slightly and restarted the car. It felt like every muscle in his body was being used for the first time. He tried to convince himself that the rest had been helpful, but his adrenaline was long gone and he simply felt exhausted. Rolling down the windows, he let the evening air play over his face. It helped to cool him as well as wake him up. The thought of his friends finally sobered him, and he pulled back onto the road. He hadn’t been the only one fighting today. He’d lost sight of that for a while.

It was fully dark and very quiet when he arrived back at the outpost. Even the cicadas in the trees were muted in the humid air. Circling the perimeter road, there was no sign of anyone, and his headlights didn’t bring anyone from inside. Relieved that the battle was over, he hesitated only to think achingly of his beloved leather coat. He didn’t even bother trying to get out of the car and instead set off for Hilltop to discover the fate of his team.

As the roads got gradually more recognizable, the exhaustion became unbearable. It was harder to keep his focus on the road and away from the steady drumbeat of agony beating behind his eyes. Home was so close now, and he felt such a pang of longing for the familiar that he couldn’t believe there was a time he had struggled to settle at Hilltop. When the road blurred again, he gave a loud sniff and renewed his grip on the steering wheel, letting the wind and miles dry his eyes.

The last few miles passed in a blurry pattern of fatigue and perseverance. He pulled himself together to wave up to the guards who yelled back into Hilltop before letting him through. As he drove to a stop in the middle of the settlement, every face looking out of a window and person rushing out of a door was a balm. One less death, one less mourning.

He put the car in park and turned the key. Overwhelmed with relief, he dropped his head and let his hair fall to shield his face.

Dozens of Hilltoppers ran to the car to open the door and help him climb out. He tried to ask about the battle, he tried to answer their questions, but instead, he finally gave in to the weight of the day and collapsed into his friends’ waiting arms.

================================================================================

When he woke in the medical trailer, it was to cool lighting, stiff sheets and a mile of bandages. They were around his head, chest and his now bare leg and arm. He felt dramatically better, but when he tried to call out, eager to speak to someone, only a grating whisper emerged past the razorblades in his throat. Running tentative fingers over the damage, he guessed he’d have to wait to tell his story. More importantly, he needed answers to what had happened to everyone else.

The door swung open almost on cue, bringing with it the familiar community noises of the Hilltop and his thoughts were cut off. Maggie and Tara walked into the light from the darkness, both wearing cautious smiles and Tara carrying his precious coat. Without saying a word, she draped it over the end of the bed and looked up with a cheeky grin. A weight was lifted from his heart – not only because of his coat – and he beamed at them around the bruises on his face.

Later, in his trailer, he lay on his bed, head propped up so that he could see the stars. The air that drifted in through the trailer window carried all the familiar scents of home and he was content if not very comfortable. He hadn’t wasted any of Hilltop’s limited supply of painkillers, instead settling for a modest glass of moonshine. He sipped the bitter alcohol and savoured the grounding feeling as it warmed his stomach. Comforted by the knowledge that the rest of his team had made it home and that the raid had been ultimately successful, he was able to rest.

As he drifted, he remembered his friends and their relief at his return. Their kind, soft, welcomed touches were already healing some of the wounds inflicted on him that day. Surrounded by safety and home, he was prepared to wait for the rest to heal as well.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own anything obviously, or Tom Payne would have been in it a whole lot more. Thanks so much to Sonshineandshowers for the Beta! Couldn't have done it without you.


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